“Ah, well,” said the colonel, with a sigh, “that’s not all misfortune—witness my sweet daughter and Rimbolt’s fine boy. What have you got to show against that?”
“Nothing, I confess.”
“By the way, though, haven’t you? The last I heard of you was in the papers; a record of a generous act on your part. You had adopted the son of an unfortunate partner of yours who had died. Is he still with you?”
“No,” said Mr Halgrove; “that turned out an unfortunate speculation in every way.”
“Did the boy bolt?”
“Not exactly. I sent him to a first-rate school, where he distinguished himself in a way of his own by an act of homicide.”
“What?” exclaimed the colonel; and Mr Rimbolt suddenly became attentive.
“Yes. He either quite or very nearly did for a young schoolfellow in a fit of the tantrums, and found it convenient to quit the place rather abruptly.”
“What was the name of the school?” asked Mr Rimbolt quietly.
“Bolsover, in —shire.”